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Melanite was waiting. Well, he was always waiting for something: paint to dry, responses to query letters, phone calls, his ******** concussion to go away. Specifically, though, he was waiting for the officer assigned to collect his quota to notice he was not... hm... doing anything about his quota. He sometimes ended a night with a ball of energy, if he was escorted, but he generally gave that to his escort. As payment for putting up with his bullshit, as it were. But, to be frank, he was a little repulsed by the idea of stealing someone's life energy from them and using it to fund a supernatural war. He hadn't exactly chosen to do this, after all.

So he stopped when he heard his collections officer call his name, turned, and bobbed a polite little bow of the kind he'd learned for his French gallery openings, a hand over his heart as was appropriate for a gentleman greeting a lady. "No, Captain," he said, tucking his hands behind his back. "My partners have been very kind and very helpful in that endeavor. Thank you for asking."

If she wasn't going to ask him where his energy was, he wasn't going to point it out. It seemed pointless.

"Some, Captain," he said. As Persephone could have told her, he had been in hospital for a day and then on bed rest for another three. Still, he was a smart man. He could have asked a captain to help him imbue silverware or bidding cards with the ability to drain energy from those at his gallery opening. Even Jada would have been an easy target if he had wanted her. "I haven't been collecting energy," he said, his expression a carefully constructed blank. Would Zircon have more spine than poor jellyfish Persephone? Well, they would see.

He would see, more to the point. What are you made of, Captain? Sterner stuff, I hope.

Melanite wanted to find a General and get sent home, but it was looking vanishingly less likely the longer he stood here before Zircon. The last place he wanted to be left was the Negaspace.

Melanite waited for her to process what he just said, holding that carefully constructed empty expression until she spoke. Then he nodded, solemnly, with a bitter little smile. "I have been patrolling," he said. "As ordered." And then, of course, the lie-that-wasn't and his coup de grace attempt on his general: "My superior officer did not tell me that energy quotas were a requirement. She said she would prefer that I drain, but did not establish what the punishments for noncompliance would be."

He let that sink in, and then added a little more: "Are there punishments for noncompliance more severe than demotion? I assure you, I am perfectly pleased to accept my comeuppance."

He had expected pain on the level of that beating from St. Petersburg. He had not expected her hand to sink into his chest, had never seen anything like it, and it caused a spike of panic. The careful, constructed calm shattered just like that, his mouth tightened into a thin line and his eyes went wide and darker than ever--it hurt. It hurt and it looked wrong, intrinsically wrong--and he was used to violation, used to pain, but this was a new dimension. A new thing to fear, and to try to adapt to.

She squeezed, and he felt something in his chest grind against her fingers. He was already fairly pale, but his color drained still further, a sickly shade of blue-green that would have, another day, heralded at least dry heaves. Today, as sweat sprang out on his brow, it brought nothing but terror, a wave of it like he hadn't felt in years.

"Yes, Captain," he said, and she took her hand from his chest. Only with an act of effort did he stay on his feet, one hand pressing harsh against his chest to make sure everything that belonged there was still in place. "I understand."